


Raspberry Ripple Sunset

by lola381pce



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Achromatopsia, Adult Clint Barton, Adult Phil Coulson, BAMF Nick Fury, Bullying, Characters from Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Deaf Clint Barton, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Clint Barton, Kid Fic, Kid Phil Coulson, M/M, Not Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Compliant, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Orphanage, Phil Coulson Needs a Hug, Pre-Slash, Prompt Fill, SHIELD, Sign Language, St. Agnes Orphanage, Tumblr: imagineclintcoulson, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2020-10-25 10:42:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20722886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lola381pce/pseuds/lola381pce
Summary: Prompt by CallToMuster for imagineclintcoulson: Phil has acromatopsia. Clint finds out and starts describing colors to him.Thank you so much for your prompt, CallToMuster - hope you enjoy. Lola x





	1. the orphanage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CallToMuster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallToMuster/gifts).

> We are always accepting new prompts at our tumblr account, so feel free to drop by with a little headcanon or ask.
> 
> Warning: Chapter one has some mental and physical bullying involving kids so please be warned. It does get better for the kid being bullied though, I promise. If you'd like me to tag anything specifically please let me know.

“Hey, Magoo! Where d’ya think _you’re_ going?”

Thirteen-year-old Phil sighed. He had hoped to avoid Garrett and his posse but apparently, luck was not on his side. Again. He shoved his fists deeper into the pockets of his jeans and kept walking. Perhaps they’d lose interest.

The sharp-edged stone that hit him between the shoulderblades causing him to gasp and stop short, told him otherwise. Ward’s aim was on point, as usual, catching him painfully on the muscle. It wasn’t the worst they’d ever done but it was enough for him to stand still and catch his breath. Which was exactly what they wanted.

He heard the footfalls coming from three directions; right, left and to the rear as they closed in on him. It would appear today was going to be a two superhero day.

Phil’s father died when he was nine, his loss literally tearing his family apart, gradually and cruelly. His mom had been taken from him a year later when she lost her fight against the breakdown that had been creeping towards her since the death of his dad. They’d both ended up as wards of the State; his mother in a psychiatric facility and Phil, an orphanage. He had no other family and no-one wanted to foster or adopt a kid who couldn’t see the world as they did.

He’d filled the emptiness with comic books when he could get them; in particular Captain America and Daredevil. One usually kept him out of trouble, the other generally guided him through it. He always called on The Cap’s level-headed influence first to help him but if trouble kept coming he added Daredevil’s fearlessness to the mix. Phil wasn’t blind but he had [achromatopsia](http://www.achromatopsia.info/color-blindness/) which, in the daylight, if he were to lose his tinted glasses, was painful and challenging. And Garrett _always_ went for his glasses. 

“Aww, c’mon Magoo. Why’d ya have to be so rude? Me an’ the boys just wanna talk.” 

The boys, fifteen-year-old Rumlow, and Ward, the youngest at ten, were equally shitty and “talking” usually involved Phil being knocked to the ground with his glasses being stolen or broken no matter how hard he fought back.

However, Phil had been practising with his other senses, training them to be stronger. He lay awake at night, just listening, trying to use his ears the way that Matt Murdock did to improve his spacial awareness. He closed his eyes and slowly inhaled a long, deep breath forcing himself to be calm. As he breathed out through his mouth, he listened carefully. Raising his fists, he turned and took a swing where he sensed Rumlow was standing. 

He wasn’t even close. His fist whistled through empty air making contact with nothing but more empty air.

The other three boys looked at each other and yelled with laughter, then as one practised bullying unit jumped on Phil knocking him to the ground keeping him there with punches and kicks.

When they eventually drew back, a bloodied and bruised Phil uncurled from his protective position and slowly got to his feet. He raised his fists again and panted, “Tha’ all you got ‘cause I c’n do this all day.”

The Cap and DareDevil would be proud. Bucky and Foggy would be horrified. Well, maybe a _little_ proud too.

“C’mon,” he challenged although it was more of an unintelligible mumble thanks to his swollen lip, split in several places. 

His dare wasn’t accepted, however. One by one, in quick succession, the three bullies yelped or screamed and grabbed an asscheek each. Phil squinted at them through aching eyes, partly because of the blows and partly because of the achromatopsia - his glasses had been lost on the ground somewhere exposing his sensitive eyes to the bright glare of the sun. 

The boys spun round to see a new kid with a loaded slingshot in his hand and decided retreat was the better part of cowardice. They’d find out more about him later. And as for Phil…

“Later, Magoo,” spat Garrett as the led the trio back to the main house at a run. “An’ you, shut the fuck up, ya little prick,” he yelled at a snivelling Ward who still rubbing his ass.

Phil was confused but happy. He’d stood up to them before, many times, but they’d never given up this easily. He felt someone by his side and thinking one of them had returned, took another swing. Sadly his aim wasn’t any better at that close range and once again, he missed by a mile.

“Hey! Don’t hit, okay? M’not one of those fuckin’ douchebags. Here, you need these?”

Phil didn’t recognise the voice and tried not to flinch as the kid gently took Phil’s hand and placed the glasses in his palm, closing his fingers around them. Phil winced as he put them on, the legs scraping the cuts on his face.

“You’re fuckin’ nuts,” the kid said, his voice perhaps a little awed. He figured the kid with the glasses was also totally badass for standing up to three dickwads who were literally kicking him while he was down. “You okay?”

Phil nodded, then shook his head. “Not really,” he admitted. Someone had managed to get a few good kicks in at his ribs and face.

“Thanks for stepping in,” he added. “I mean, I’d have taken them eventually but… appreciate it.”

The kid grinned at him. “Yeah. I could tell the way they were pissin’ their pants you had ‘em on the fuckin’ ropes.”

Phil stared at him. “You swear… a lot.”

The kid’s grin widened. “The fuck I do!”

Phil laughed and then pulled a face again as the splits in his lip stretched apart and his ribs twinged sharply. “Think maybe I better get to the infirmary.”

“What?” the kid asked, his eyebrows knitting into a frown. He’d been struggling to understand all of what Phil was saying with his swollen lip making his words unclear but now that Phil had ducked his head out of his line of sight, he was lost completely.

Phil raised his head again and looked carefully at the other boy and noticed hearing aids on either side of his head. 

The kid shrugged. “Didn’t hear you properly,” he said, pointing to his left ear.

Phil nodded, understanding at once. He took a deep breath and started to speak in a raised voice “I need to…”

The kid stopped him with a shake of his head. “You don’ need ta shout. Just talk like you usually do an’ if I don’ hear it, I’ll try ta lip-read if you look at me. Although with that fuckin’ fat lip of yours, you’re makin’ it pretty hard.”

Phil tried not to laugh and clutched his ribs. “M’name’s Phillip Coulson. Phil.”

“Clint Barton. There a nurse or a doc around here, Phil cuz I think you should maybe see somebody.”

Phil rolled his eyes. Ow! No eye-rolling.

“Yeah. That’s… what I was saying. I need to go to the infirmary. Um, you coming?” he asked, hopeful but not really expecting a yes.

Clint touched his hand to the back of his neck and gave it a thoughtful rub. “I would but… not really a big fan. Besides, they’d probably be askin’ questions about this.” He held up the slingshot.

“Why’ve you got that?” Phil asked, curious. He didn’t see why Garrett and the others bolted, just that they had.

“You mean you missed my epic shots to those douchebags’ asses?” Clint was hurt. Deeply. He’d hit them from a good thirty or so feet away, right in the middle of their butt cheeks.

“Dude, without my glasses I can hardly see a foot in front of me.”

Clint flipped Phil off right in front of his bleeding nose. “What about a hand?”

Phil slapped it away. “Ow and fuck off!”

“Now who’s got a pottymouth?”

“Apparently, you’re a bad influence. Look, I’m gonna head to the infirmary. But… well, thanks.” 

Clint ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck. With a shrug, he said, “You wanna catch up after? I mean, supposin’ they don’t keep your scrawny ass in.” 

Phil smiled, again trying not to be too hopeful. Or to wince. He hadn’t made many friends during his time at the orphanage. And those he did make either left for nice homes with a new family or were chased off by Garrett and his thugs. Still, he’d take Clint’s offer for however long it lasted.

“Sure,” he replied. “Where?”

“You scared a heights?” Clint asked with a mischievous glint in his eye. Phil’s brows came together in a puzzled frown as he shook his head.

“Meetcha on the roof then.” 

Phil’s frown deepened. “We’re not allowed up there,” he said, immediately feeling like a little kid at the scornful look Clint gave him. His Captain America side warred with his Daredevil knowing what Clint had suggested was wrong but wanting to do it anyway. 

“Well, if you’re too…”

“Okay,” Phil agreed quickly, afraid Clint was going to say chickenshit. That was one of Garrett’s favourite expressions and he hated it.

* * *

“When are you going to stop getting into fights, Coulson?” Dr Streiten asked as he sutured the cut above Phil’s eyebrow. 

Phil was sore and miserable and pissed off at having to take shit because he’d been bullied yet again. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted… he wanted his Mom. And his Dad. And his family back. He wanted to go home. He desperately wanted someone to tell him it would get better. It was going to be okay. But he’d lost his belief in that futile hope after his first year. After Garrett and his cronies figured him for an easy target. 

He may have felt hopeless but there was one thing he knew above all else. You didn’t tell. No matter what. So he just sat quietly with his jaw clenched to keep the tears at bay staring ahead while the doctor treated his injuries. 

Streiten sighed and ignored Phil’s fight to remain in control. He wouldn’t thank him for mentioning it. 

He’d lost count of the number of times the boy in front of him had been to his office for medical care. He was well aware there was a bullying problem at the orphanage. He even knew who the culprits were but he just couldn’t get anything done about it. The Administrator, a sinister aloof man by the name of Whitehall, refused to acknowledge it when he gave his daily reports, putting the cuts, bruising and broken limbs down to the carelessness of children or overzealous roughhousing. 

Apparently, it was the “natural order of things in these places” and “Nothing can be done until someone makes a noise. And no-one’s making a noise, right?” 

Noise meaning complaint. And of course, no-one was complaining. That would lead to more bullying and being ostracised. The Administrator and the Board had no interest in the facility other than cutting costs and turning a profit for the State. And themselves. Trying to do any real good with the kids would only eat into that nice fat bonus at the end of the year. 

“Phillip…” he began, kindly.

“It’s the achromatopsia, sir,” Phil interrupted. He knew where this was going and couldn’t handle the sympathetic tone in the doctor’s voice. He couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ cry. “I… fall down a lot with it. Walk into things.”

Streiten knew this was bull but he played along… sort of. “Especially if you don’t have your glasses on.”

Phil tilted his head and gave him a watery smile, wincing as it pulled his lip. “‘Specially then.” 

They fell silent for a time until Phil said, “I, uh… might have a new friend. Till they leave anyway.”

Streiten continued with his suturing and tried not to get too excited for Phil. Or disappointed. He was a decent kid and a friend would be good for him. Not that it would last long. Other kids were naturally drawn to him but when they realised he couldn’t protect them from bullies, no matter how much he wanted to or how hard he tried, they drifted away. Or worse turned on him to protect themselves.

“That’s nice. Care to share?”

“His name’s Clint.”

The doctor’s heart sank. “Barton?” he asked trying to keep his tone light and his face impassive.

Phil nodded but his expression was wary. The doctor was obviously failing with his indifferent expression. He gave up the pretence and sat back for a moment to look at Phil.

“Be careful, Phillip. Clint is…”

Phil’s eyes narrowed and his body tensed. Streiten realised he should have known better than to criticise someone the boy had called ‘friend’. He didn’t give his friendship easily understanding what a fragile thing it could be

“Is what, Dr Streiten? Dangerous? Messed up? Sad and lonely? Well, guess what? Maybe we’re all a mix of that. And he hasn’t punched me in the face or ganged up on me with other kids. In fact, he’s the only one who’s tried to help. You finished?”

The doctor stared at his patient for a moment then cut the thread to the last suture. Knowing the boy’s nature to believe there’s good in everyone (excluding perhaps the thugs who terrorised his existence), Streiten figured he’d only make things worse by continuing to warn Phil off.

“I am,” he sighed.

Phil hopped off the gurney wincing as the pain shot through his ribs all the way to his head. Streiten reached out his hand to steady him but Phil shook it off and slipped his glasses back on.

“I think it would be good for you to stay here…”

“Thanks for…” Phil interrupted gesturing to his face and Stratton’s ministrations. He had no intention of staying. Some time in the recovery room away from Garrett and his asshole buddies usually helped him but he was too upset and angry, too emotionally hurt this time. “I guess I’ll see you in a few days.”

Streiten watched the boy leave with his head held high and his shoulders squared as much as he could with so much bruising to his ribs. Enough was enough. It was beyond time to do something about this. 

With more determination and anger than he’d felt for a long time, he snapped off the nitrile gloves dropping them in the medical waste bin and picked up the receiver of the phone on his desk. He dialled a number given to him several months ago which he’d committed to memory then waited a few seconds until his call was answered with a brusk, no-nonsense voice that usually scared the hell out of him. Not today though. 

“I have one for you to watch out for. He’s the real deal. Trust me, he’ll put Captain America to shame. No, I am _not_ shitting you. I’ll get his information to you but I need something in return. I need a new head for the orphanage. No. Don’t think about it, Nick. Get it done or I’m finished. Thank you. The boy is Phillip J Coulson from Manitowoc, Wisconsin. Father deceased. Mother in a psychiatric hospital in Brooklyn. He’s been in care for four years with circumstances unlikely to change. Above-average intelligence, good grades and stubborn as a mule.” Streiten paused for a moment and smiled while he listened to the comments coming from the other end of the phone. “Yes. I thought you’d like that.

* * *

When Phil opened the door to the roof his heart sank. There was no sign of the new kid who’d saved his ass. He nodded to himself. Figured. 

“Took yer time, Fatlip,” called a voice from behind him. He turned to squint in the direction from which the voice came. His mouth dropped open when he spotted Clint sitting on the ledge of the flat section of the roof, his legs dangling into space. That was… nuts!

Wondering what he was getting himself into, Phil put a rock between the door and the jamb to prevent it from closing. As he did so, he wondered how Clint had intended to get down from the roof had he not turned up. You couldn’t open the door from the outside. 

“It’s Phillip, not Fatlip,” he told Clint as he sat gingerly beside him. Crap, they were high up.

Clint gave him a once over before scoffing, “Yeah? Well lookin’ at yer face I think I’m right an’ you’re fulla shit.”

Phil touched the tips of his fingers to his swollen face. Yeah, maybe he had a point.

“Did you really his those assholes from a distance?” he asked, genuinely interested.

Clint stiffened. His voice was as tight as his body when he demanded angrily, “You don’t believe me?”

Phil rubbed his nose with the heel of his hand grimacing at the flare of pain it set off through his face. “It’s not that,” he said. “It’s just… I can’t imagine being able to see that far. You must have eyes like a hawk.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, yeah. I guess.” Clint relaxed a little. “An’ I never miss.”

“The Awesome Hawkeye then,” Phil said with a gentle half-smile. 

“Fuck off!”

“The Awesome Hawkeye - World’s Sweariest Pottymouth.”

Clint laughed and carefully nudged his shoulder against Phil’s so as not to hurt him further. “You’re such a fuckin’ douche.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, content in each other’s company. 

“It’s getting dark,” Phil commented, staring out over their little part of the city. Clint turned his head to look at him.

“That really all you see?” he asked curiously.

Still looking forward, Phil nodded. He knew colours existed. He’d heard people talk about the blue sky, how the grass was greener on the other side, the bright orange ball in the sky, but for him, the world was painted in shades of grey and shadow. 

“Pretty much, yeah. I have achromatopsia. Means I don't see colours like you do. I see black and white and grey.”

Clint stared at Phil long enough for it to begin to feel uncomfortable. When Phil turned to face the other boy, Clint said, “Okay, so… maybe it’s like not bein’ able to hear properly. Like me. Everythin’ sounds… off. Like you’re listenin’ with your head underwater.”

Phil wasn't sure he got that. Seeing the world without colour was perfectly normal to him, he had nothing else to compare it to. Perhaps Clint had been able to hear sounds differently before he needed his hearing aids so Phil figured he was just trying to understand and not actually being a dick. He wasn't sure he could explain so he shrugged a shoulder in response.

“What’s your favourite ice cream?” Clint asked after a few minutes.

Phil’s eyes narrowed at the seemingly random question.

“Uh… raspberry ripple, I guess.”

“Why?”

Phil thought for a moment. He’d never really wondered why before, just that it was. “I like the way the flavours mingle.”

“Sooo, it makes you feel good when you eat it?”

Another weird question. Frowning, Phil shrugged. “I dunno.”

He closed his eyes and imagined spooning a scoop of ice cream into his mouth. In his mind, he felt the coldness first, chilling the inside of his mouth. Then, as it melted over his tongue, he could taste the creamy sweetness of vanilla followed by bursts of sharpness from the veins of raspberry that ran through it. He smiled and opened his eyes.

“You’re kind of an oddball but… yeah, I like the taste of it. And… I guess it feels nice now that I think about. Why?”

Clint grinned at him. “Okay. So, that’s a sunset. It’s not just the sky gettin’ darker for me. I see loadsa colours. Like blues an’ purples an’ with white clouds turnin’ red an’ orange an’ pink an’ it all gettin’ darker until it’s like really black. An’ there’s little bright sparkly bits for the stars.” 

Clint goes quiet for a moment before saying softly, “Sunsets are real pretty. They make me feel I can make it through another day, y’know.”

“Yeah. I know,” Phil says wistfully looking back at the sky. It was still shades of grey to him but he thought perhaps there was an extra depth to it now he hadn't realised before. As the sky continued to darken his taste buds tingled with the memory of something else.

“Huh! I can kinda taste Cherry Garcia now that it’s getting darker.”

Clint looked at him, his gaze warm and almost proud. “Congratulations, Fatlip. You’ve just tasted your first purple.” 

Phil grinned at him, his wonder at grasping the concept of colours for the first time overriding the pain from his ‘fat lip’. “The grass. What colour’s the grass?”

“Lime jello!” Clint crowed, getting into the game.

“What about the sky?”

Clint rolled his eyes. “At night or day? Blueberries at night. An’ Blue Moon ice cream durin’ the day.”

“Never tasted either but they but sound awesome. And the sun?”

Clint looked at Phil like he was an idiot. “Like a fuckin' orange, ya mutt!”

Phil’s mouth dropped open in shock then he yelled with laughter falling back onto the roof, slapping his hand against the cement as his body shook with the force of it. It hurt all over to laugh so hard but it felt great too. It had been such a long time since he’d been able to feel like this. 

Clint watched him shaking his head with amusement as he giggled at Phil, gradually becoming caught up in Phil’s mirth until he was laughing every bit as much and had collapsed beside him, holding his ribs. It had been a long time for Clint too. 

It would be cool to have someone to talk to, for a little while at least.


	2. the triskelion

Coulson scanned through the file marked **CONFIDENTIAL** in big, bold letters that had been deposited on his desk by Nicholas J Fury. Bold as bollocks and without uttering a single word, the S.H.I.E.L.D. Deputy Director had then turned on his heel and departed - mission accomplished thank you very much. The aura of self-satisfaction surrounding his customary “fuck-you” attitude revealed how elated he truly was; to Coulson anyway. 

So, they finally had him. The notorious Hawkeye brought in by Fury himself no less which explained the self-satisfaction. Coulson rolled his eyes behind his glasses. Wonderful! He was going to be insufferable for the next few months. At least. 

Coulson fixed himself a coffee and settled down to read. Going by the report it hadn’t been an easy capture. The World’s Greatest Marksman had led the World’s Grumpiest Deputy on a merry chase until Fury finally lost patience shooting Hawkeye in the leg to slow him down. That didn't bode well for any sort of heartfelt cooperation.

“Kudos on the recruitment technique, Deputy Director. Shooting a potential in the leg? Way to build trust. Very you, sir.”

“How the _ fuck _ do you do that?” Fury huffed, dropping into the chair opposite ignoring his agent’s snarky comments. It wasn't the first time he wondered. Or even asked. He _ knew _ he’d been silent when he’d entered the room and Coulson had seemed engrossed in the dossier in front of him. But as usual, he'd picked up on something; a slight noise, or scent, or disruption in the fucking force for all Fury knew.

Coulson paid no attention to Fury and continued to study the paperwork. He was aware he was pushing Fury’s “annoy-me-at-your-peril” buttons but fuck it. Fury owed him with this one… big time.

“How’s he settling in?” he asked eventually. He knew the answer already, he'd heard from various sources, but it would be way more amusing to hear S.H.I.E.L.D.’s Second-in-Command actually admit it.

Fury narrowed his seeing eye in annoyance but whether it was at Coulson or his new recruit he was uncertain. “Like a feral cat, hissing and growling at everyone that goes near him.”

Coulson huffed a snort of laughter out his nose. 

“And Jasper’s balls?” He knew the answer to that too. He’d heard it direct from the injured party in _ way _ too much gory detail. Thankfully Jasper had stopped short of dropping his pants and showing him.

Fury chuckled at that himself. “Still walking with a limp but he’ll live. Might not be best buddies with our boy any time soon but _ hell _, Cheese, he shoulda known better than to get close enough for an elbow to reach his junk.”

Coulson closed the file with exaggerated care, and rested his hands on top, his fingers loosely threaded together. He lifted his head to look Fury in his one good eye. Had Fury been an ordinary man, the intensity of Coulson's gaze burning through the tinted aviators would have had him squirming in his seat. Fortunately, he was made of sterner stuff and glared back.

“Then I presume, Deputy Director, you’re here to tell me he’s mine.” The pleasant, barely-there smile curling up the corner of Coulson's mouth as he spoke didn't ease Fury's internal discomfort in the slightest. 

Fury sighed and tapped his fingertips against the polished wooden desk a couple of times pretending to consider Coulson's annoyingly accurate pronouncement. Even at this relatively young age, early thirties, Coulson was his best agent despite the fact he was unable to use him in the field. His interrogation skills bordered on psychic making it easy for him to either develop a rapport with or intimidate the shit out of prisoners and rookie agents alike. People who didn't know Coulson tended to underestimate him, something Fury knew Coulson encouraged. If they underestimated him the more likely they were to let something slip or fuck up enough that he would catch them out. 

Then it was sayonara, bitches!

Fury was also well aware he’d made a mistake in not having Coulson debrief Hawkeye in the first place. They both knew it. And god knows, it would have made everyone's lives easier if he'd just waited. 

The assassin known only as Hawkeye had been at the top of Fury’s ‘Crazy Ass Motherfuckers I want in S.H.I.E.L.D.’ list for a couple of years but at this moment he wasn’t convinced the merc was worth it. Using Hill (too impatient), Blake (too irritable), and Sitwell (too eager) to interview him hadn’t helped the situation. They’d gotten nothing from him except indigestion, high blood pressure, and a set of aching nuts. 

Fury's defence, such as it was, Coulson simply hadn’t been available. Although not technically a field agent, he’d still been on the other side of the world working on something equally as important as Operation Broadhead (so named by Sitwell), and foolishly Fury had been unable, or more accurately, unwilling to wait the two days until his scheduled return. Like Hill, Fury had been too damned impatient and now he and everyone else was paying the price. He was the first to admit, Coulson with his quiet competence and reassuring presence, was a calming influence at S.H.I.E.L.D. and with Fury in particular. He wasn’t sure how well it would work with Hawkeye but he was curious to find out.

Ah the hell with it! The challenge would do the motherfucker good.

“Fine. Don’t fuck it up,” Fury said crisply, before pushing himself out of the chair. Like that hadn't been the plan all along.

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“Smug motherfucker,” Fury murmured as he exited the room, his black leather duster swirling dramatically around him.

* * *

This time the guards were taking no chances. Cuffed at the wrists and ankles, Hawkeye was led hobbling to the interrogation room where he was unceremoniously bundled into a hard plastic chair that was bolted to the floor. The pain in his leg flared briefly but he didn't acknowledge it. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction. 

His handcuffs were fastened to an eyebolt sunk into the tabletop. A guard in full tactical gear - unarmed but highly trained - stood on either side of him near enough to grab him if they had to but far enough away that he couldn't turn his head and headbutt them in the balls. Or sink his teeth into them if it came to it. He'd done both in his time though not here; elbowed one of them in the veggies though. He briefly wondered how the bald guy with the glasses was doing.

He smirked. They’re learning. He’d just have to think up some other way to terrorise them and whoever they sent next to “debrief” him.

As if reading his mind, the lights dimmed dramatically and the two guards, alert before, snapped to attention. Interesting. Must be an important fucker. Maybe it was the asshole who brought him in. He definitely wouldn’t mind a piece of him.

The door opened and a nondescript guy in a bland grey suit (surprise, surprise) entered. He didn’t appear intimidating or dangerous certainly not enough to invoke the guards' reaction. In fact, he seemed pretty unremarkable at first glance. Well, other than the tinted aviators he wore indoors. 

Hawkeye snorted derisively. Pretentious asshole. 

The suit dropped his gaze from Hawkeye’s as he approached the empty chair on the other side of the table, and the assassin took the opportunity to openly study him. Hawkeye was well aware that looks could be deceiving; it might be in his best interests to pay closer attention to this one. 

He remembered the guards had behaved in a similar way to the woman who’d come to talk to him. Gill? Hill? Something like that. She’d been competent and smart but she’d been impatient with him, too full of disdain. It had made her easy to wind up and piss off. Score two to Hawkeye.

Daresay he’d make up his mind about the new one soon enough.

“My name is Agent Coulson, Hawkeye. How's your leg?” Coulson asked amiably, opening the middle button of his jacket as he sat opposite the archer. He smoothed his fingertips down his tie and set a file on the table in front of himself.

Hawkeye didn't bother to respond. Although in fairness, he hadn't heard what the suit said to be _ able _ to respond. And he hadn't been looking at the suit’s mouth when he’d spoken, distracted by the awesome purple tie, so he missed the chance to lipread. Stupid. 

They'd found, and much to his annoyance, removed his hearing aids when he was in medical having his bullet wound treated. Sure, they’d returned them but either the batteries needed recharging or somebody’d been poking around in them and fucked them up. He could barely hear a damned thing now. Not that he’d told anyone. He’d rather they just think he was an asshole. Wasn’t difficult, it was a role at which he excelled.

He smirked again and re-focussed his attention on the suit’s face. 

"...need the cuffs?"

Shit! Apparently he missed most of what had been said only catching the last few words but not the context in which he said them. And without the context “need the cuffs” was pretty confusing.

Snapping out of his internal monologue he realised the suit was staring at him. His face remained expressionless and his eyes were still hidden by his shades but there was a set to the suit’s jaw and his head was tilted in such a way as to make Hawkeye certain he was watching him closely. Scrutinising him. And dammit if that head tilt, inquisitive and alert, didn't remind him of someone… from a long time ago.

Unlike Fury, Hawkeye couldn’t quite stop himself from fidgeting under the intensity of the agent's gaze.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the suit opened the file on the table with his left hand and using the forefinger of his right, tapped the thick sheaf of paper a couple of times to catch Hawkeye's attention. When he was sure he had it he carefully fingerspelled C.L.I.N.T.

Holy fuck!

Hawkeye snapped his eyes up to the suit's face and barely controlled a flinch as he removed his shades to reveal a pair of familiar blue/grey eyes looking back at him. Now that he looked carefully, the face was still familiar but subtly different. Older, more defined, with a strong jaw instead of soft with baby fat, and his nose had been broken at least once. There were creases in the corners of his eyes now yet the eyes themselves, with their unmistakable flecks of copper in the irises, hadn’t changed. They were still kind, still had that burning intensity that Clint remembered. 

Fatlip! 

Phillip fucking Coulson. The kid from the orphanage; the kid he’d left behind. 

Clint opened his mouth to say something but the warning contained in the frown the sui… _ Phil _ gave him before he calmly dropped his gaze to the folder in front of him, stopped Clint short. 

“You can leave us now,” Phil said to the guards, appearing to be absorbed in paperwork from the file. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” the one on Clint’s left responded. “We’ve been ordered to stay with him at all times.”

Phil raised his head with a deliberateness that bordered on arrogant, tilting it to the side again as his eyebrows arched in challenge. “And where do you think he’s going to go, Agent Garver? Cuffed to the table kinda limits his options doesn’t it? Or... do you believe I’m incapable of handling myself perhaps?”

Clint ducked his head to conceal the quick flash of a smile spreading across his face. If this Phil Coulson was anything like the kid he knew from years ago, the guard would be as well blowing feathers out his ass as trying to convince Phil he was anything other than capable of handling himself.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he repeated although he sounded less certain now. “My orders come from Deputy Director Fury.”

Phil smiled indulgently at him. Oh yeah, Clint thought. He definitely recognised _ that _ look. Some things clearly didn't change.

“As do mine," Phil told the guard. "And who do you think he’ll be more pissed at? Me for being unable to do my job. Or the person who’s preventing me from doing it?”

Flicking his gaze up at the two-way mirror in time to see the guard blanch, it was clear to Clint the conversation really wasn’t going the guard’s way. He smiled again, wider this time.

Pressing his point home, Phil gave his own orders. “Wait outside the door and don’t let anyone in until you have my say so. Understood?”

Wisely coming to the conclusion that Phil was definitely the big dog, the guard nodded to his colleague and the pair left the room without further protest.

“So, Hawkeye. Do I have your cooperation now?” As he spoke Phil awkwardly signed his words, using only one hand and keeping it low where the camera recording the interview wouldn’t see. Then without speaking he added another instruction.

Okaaay. Clint wasn’t sure what was going on but he’d go along with it. 

“Well, I dunno, suit. Not exactly sure why I should give it seeing you weren’t particularly gentle when I was brought here.” He rattled his cuffs against the eyebolt. “Or particularly hospitable.”

Phil forced himself not to react to Clint’s grievances. He was still a little put out himself by Fury shooting the archer in the leg even if the bullet had missed anything vital. He wasn’t a criminal. Well, okay, he was but he was supposed to be recruited into S.H.I.E.L.D. and that required a carrot, not a stick. Especially now he was aware Hawkeye’s identity was that of the boy who’d rescued him when they were kids. The boy who just... disappeared one night.

“Unfortunate I agree. But… I’m afraid we were running out of time with you. You put us in a difficult situation, Hawkeye. Allow me to make things up to you. A show of good faith perhaps?”

In his office, Fury cursed as the live feed from the interrogation room to his monitor went blank. What the fuck? He tried contacting the guards standing outside but there was nothing but a loud hiss of static. Comms were down. Or being blocked. With another stream of curses, he called for the other senior agent he trusted. As much as he trusted anyone.

“Meet me down in interrogation three,” he barked. “And bring a team.”

Hill didn’t waste time asking what was going on. She merely confirmed the order with a yessir and scrambled to do as instructed.

A few minutes later Hill and Fury burst into the room accompanied by six armed guards including the pair Phil had placed on sentry duty outside the door. It was empty save for two sets of unlocked cuffs lying on the table openly mocking them.

"Sonofabitch-motherfucker!"

Hill rarely swore herself but on this occasion, she believed Fury had never been more eloquent.

* * *

“The guy with the eyepatch is going to be losing his shit about now, huh?” Clint said with a grin looking over his shoulder at Phil. 

“Yeah…” Phil didn’t sound or look nearly as amused with his mouth turned down at the corners in a grim expression. He was in seriously deep shit. He had no idea what possessed him but it had seemed important at that moment to get Clint away from any prying eyes that would witness their reunion. 

Including Fury. 

Not that anyone was aware he knew Hawkeye. Hell, Phil himself hadn’t known until Clint looked at him with that insolent smirk and contemptuous attitude, appearing tough to anyone who didn’t know him. But he’d recognised the vulnerability beneath the guise. And the eyes. Clint’s eyes had always twinkled with mischief. They still shone but they seemed so much older now bearing witness to all that Clint that had experienced; far more than he should have in his life. 

Having removed Clint’s restraints after the guards had gone, Phil and he worked together to open the grille in the ceiling and pull themselves up into the ventilation shaft. From there, they quickly made their way up and along a series of ducts until they reached the elevators where they hitched a ride to the roof. And there they sat, legs dangling over the edge as they used to at the orphanage. Admittedly, the Triskelion was a damn sight higher - about thirty floors higher - and a strong wind whipped around the curves of the buildings. Even Clint was quite grateful for the guardrail they leaned against as they looked out over the river

“He gonna be mad with you?” Clint signed.

Phil shrugged. “Putting it mildly,” he signed back.

Clint ducked his head and ruefully rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah sorry, Fatlip,” he said out loud glancing up at Phil.

Clint’s familiar gesture and his use of the old nickname made Phil smile. “‘S’okay, Pottymouth,” he replied.

Clint grinned back.

“How’d you know it was me back there?” he asked returning to ASL.

“I didn’t.” Phil shrugged a shoulder at Clint’s sceptical look. “Not exactly. We had no clear photos of Hawkeye. Just knew where you’d been, who you’d taken out, even worked out why some of the time. But… I saw your aids weren’t working. You hadn’t told anyone. You let everyone think you were a jerk instead. Realised I'd seen that move before. Nice job on winding Hill and Blake up by the way. Their reports? Real fun read. Oh, and Agent Sitwell sends his regards.”

Clint smirked and bobbed his head in acknowledgement. Sitwell was the bald one he’d elbowed in the balls. The last person he figured would send his regards. Apparently Fatlip was still a drole fucker.

“The smirk though? Kinda similar to someone I knew a long time ago. Still full of shit and bravado. But honestly... I didn’t realise until right then that Hawkeye and Clint Barton was the same person. Wondered about it occasionally but I was never sure. Hell, I damn near had a heart attack.”

Phil’s smile was gentle but more than enough to deepen those crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

“The Awesome Hawkeye - World’s Sweariest Pottymouth,” he said fondly.

Clint gasped. Jesus! He hadn’t heard that in like… twenty years! Fuck! He’d used it, of course. Well, a bastardised version of it. The Amazing Hawkeye - World’s Greatest Marksman. He wondered if Phil knew that.

“So, uh… you kept up with ASL.” It wasn’t so much a question as a way to change the subject before he freaked the hell out. Which he was so close to doing. 

“Didn’t really use it much…” ‘_ after you left’ _ was unsaid by Phil but Clint heard it in his own head anyway. “But after a while… yeah, I picked it back up.”

“‘Nother deaf kid?” 

“A few of them actually.”

A spike of jealousy pierced Clint’s chest. He thought learning American Sign Language together had been something special, just for the two of them. It was stupid. He should be happy Phil had used it to speak with kids who may not have a voice otherwise and yet he found it kinda hurt to learn that Phil had signed with someone other than him. Yeah, real mature! And anyway, he really didn’t have the right to feel bitter about it. After all, he was the one who’d chosen to leave.

“Surprised the three douches didn’t break your fingers,” Clint said out loud, casually plucking at an imaginary loose thread on the hem of his S.H.I.E.L.D. t-shirt showing he was cool with it. 

Phil didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he lost himself in the view spread out in front of them; the afternoon sun reflecting off the expanse of the Potomac, picking out ripples in the water churned up by the breeze. Little flashes of white tumbling through the swirling greys of the river. It was a view he never tired of when he managed to find the time to make it to the roof. Old habits...

Feeling Clint’s eyes on him he eventually signed, “About the only bones they didn’t break.”

“What? How? What'd they do?” Clint’s shock was evident by the uncharacteristic jerkiness of his hands and the flash of anger in his eyes.

“You left, Clint,” Phil told him. It wasn’t said resentfully or with annoyance. He was simply stating a fact. “They fell back into their old ways. Caught me on my own a few times before I could make it onto the roof to get away. Being up there… it worked for a while but they followed me one day. Kicked the shit out of me and…” A humourless laugh escaped from Phil’s lips, “...threw me off the edge.”

Clint paled, a terrible chill running its icy fingers down his spine. 

“If it helps, I don’t think they were really trying to kill me.” Phil cast a sideways glance at him and gave him a small smile. “Just doing it for shits and giggles. But… whatever they thought they were doing, the roof of the extension broke my fall. Broke a few bones too. Ended up in hospital then the infirmary.”

Clint drew his knees up to his chest, ignoring the angry throb of protest from the bullet wound in his thigh. He rested his chin on top of his knees and tightly wrapped his arms around his shins. If he’d known. If he’d realised what they would do, maybe he wouldn’t have gone. Or maybe he’d pushed harder to take Phil with him. 

Ah fuck! Who was he kidding? He _ had _ known. Not the extremes to which the three douches would go perhaps, but he'd known they'd pick up where they left off and Phil would bear the brunt of it. Fuck! He’d been ten years old and a scrawny little shit. He was never going to win an argument with Barney. Not for someone who wasn't family. 

He turned his head to see Phil’s face. “I’m so sorry,” he said quietly.

Phil shook his head, making Clint’s chest tighten thinking he was rejecting the apology. Rejecting him.

“It’s not that you left me behind, Clint. It was going to happen eventually. I always knew that. But... I had no idea what happened to you. Didn’t know if you’d gone willingly or if someone had taken you. It didn’t matter that Whitehall told us you’d run off. It was just… you didn’t say goodbye. I kinda figured if you were going to run away, you’d at least have said goodbye to me.”

Clint jerked himself upright at the minute break in Phil’s voice at the end. He twisted his body round to face Phil and talked while he signed, the words flying from his hands almost too fast for Phil to follow.

“Aw, Phil. My brother came for me. Told me he found somewhere he could look after me. Somewhere for the two of us to be safe. Wanted to come find you. Take you with us. When he said no, I tried anyway but he…” Clint abruptly stopped signing and snapped his mouth shut. Phil didn’t need to know that Barney had punched him in the face, splitting his lip, and threatened him with worse if he didn’t grab his crap and go with him. “He told me I was an ungrateful little shit. Told me he’d leave me there if that’s what I really wanted. But if he did, I'd never see him again.”

He pressed his forehead against guardrail for a moment, taking a few steadying breaths. God knows, part of him had wanted to stay. He’d come to care for Phil in the three months he’d known him. Phil had taught him so much in that short time. More than he ever learned at home. But Barney was his brother. He was family. Even if he did leave him for dead at seventeen. 

Clint looked up at Phil again and signed more calmly, “He was my brother, Phil. I had to go with him.”

Phil ducked head and angled it for Clint to see the sad little half-smile playing on his lips.

“Didn’t know that. I’m glad though. Glad you were with your brother." He paused for a moment looking thoughtful as though he was weighing something up. "Not so sure he kept you safe though. Hawkeye the assassin wouldn't have come to our attention if he'd managed to keep you out of trouble.”

Well, shit! Phil always was a smart sonofabitch. 

Barney had tried for a time, protecting when he could but he’d ended up falling in with a rough crowd at Carson’s. Thieves and drunkards mostly, but a couple of them - Trickshot and The Swordsman - were hard-core criminals who led Barney into a downward spiral until he was nothing like the protective brother who’d once cared about him. Finally, Barney had abandoned him, battered and bleeding in an alley to take the fall while he and his buddies from the circus disappeared in the night. 

Ah, hell. It was long ago. Maybe he’d tell Phil about it one day. If he stuck around. If Phil _ wanted _ him to stick around. He took a deep breath, his stomach rolling and churning. No time like the present to find out.

"What do you want with me?" he asked. "S.H.I.E.L.D I mean? What're you gonna do to me?"

"Recruit you," Phil replied mildly, hiding his surprise at the slight tremor in Clint's voice. He realised Clint was genuinely afraid of what they had planned for him. "Fury's been tracking you for over two years to bring you in. As part of the team. What did you _ think _ we were going to do?"

Clint shrugged a shoulder. "If people are chasing me it's not usually to offer me a job. Besides, your dickhead of a boss shot me. In the fucking _ leg _."

"Flesh wound," Phil argued. 

Clint snorted at him. He stayed quiet for a few moments, thinking. Phil recognised the faraway look that had settled over Clint's face and knew better than to disturb him. He'd open up when he was ready.

"If I do it…" Clint began hesitantly. "If l if agree to join S.H.I.E.L.D.... will I report to you?"

Phil gave him a rueful smile. "I'm not an active field agent, so no, I won't be your handler. It'll be another level four or maybe level five. But… it's possible I'll be designing your ops. Briefing you before, debriefing you after. I don't get to pick and choose but if it would make it awkward…"

"No! I mean, that… that would be okay I guess." For Phil not to be involved with was unthinkable. Clint had walked away from him once. He wasn't about to make the same mistake again. 

Clint bit his lip and rubbed the back of his neck. Phil watched him, feeling like he'd been transported back in time twenty years. Ten-year-old Clint used to do the same thing. His next action would usually be one of three options: throw the first punch; talk his way out of trouble; or follow the plan, reluctantly or otherwise. 

"I don't have much of a choice, do I?" Clint asked, looking up at Phil. 

Okay, follow the plan. Reluctantly. He could work with that.

"You always have a choice, Clint," Phil told him keeping his expression neutral. 

Clint snorted again. "Yeah, jail or S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Still a choice."

"Not much of one. Your boss made that pretty fucking clear."

The need to convince Clint to stay, to trust him, was overwhelming. Their lives had taken different paths. Phil had been lucky. Eventually. Clint not so much but here they were, thrown together again by fate or circumstance. He didn't want to squander the opportunity. 

Phil desperately wanted to find out what had become of that kid from the orphanage. Other than he was Hawkeye, World's Greatest Marksman, he had no idea what had happened in Clint's life. However looking at him, knowing what was in his file, he was certain very little of it had been good. He could still see a trace of the boy he'd once known but this Clint was haunted, twitchy. Ready to run. Even when they were alone, no guards, no cameras, he could see Clint's eyes taking in everything around him. Working the odds, forming an exit strategy. 

"You wouldn't be alone, Clint. You'd have back up. Be part of a team."

Clint shot him an amused look. "Not much of a team player, Phil. Never have been."

"I'll be watching your back. Let me take care of you."

"You'd do that?" Clint asked, his eyes wide. "Even after I left you behind."

"You were ten years old. I never blamed you. I was… _ worried _ about you. Cared about you. I… Fuck!" Phil scrubbed a hand over his face. "I missed you."

O-kay. Clint was stunned. He had no idea how to respond to that. He knew his mom had cared for him, loved him as best she could. Barney too till he became a fuck up. But they were family. They were supposed to care. But no-one had ever missed him outside of them before. 

Neither of them spoke for a while both suddenly preoccupied with the Potomac and the hypnotic white swirls rolling across the surface.

"Okay. I guess I'm in."

Phil looked at him. "I didn't say it for…"

"I know, dumbass. But I'm in anyway."

Phil tilted his head to the side and smiled gently. After a moment it stretched into a mischievous grin. "So… you wanna get Fury back?"

Clint perked up at that. "I get to shoot him?"

"Not today but... how would you like to piss him off more than you've managed already?"

"I could live with that."

* * *

Crankier than a bulldog chewing a lemon, Fury returned to his office sometime later to find the two missing persons he’d just broken off directing the search for, large as life and twice as ugly, right here in his goddamn office. Hawkeye sat stiffly in the visitor chair in front of the sleek black desk, with Coulson standing behind him just off to Hawkeye’s right like some sort of guardian angel.

Well, of _ course _ they were here! How could he _ possibly _ think they'd be hanging out anywhere else? God fucking dammit!

Fury paused in the doorway struggling to decide whether or not to have security throw them in the brig. He was so damned pissed right now. The fuck had he been thinking trying to bring Hawkeye into the fold? Oh, the assassin was good. Incredible even. But apparently he was going to be a royal pain in the ass if he remained. If he survived _ long enough _ to remain, and right now it was touch and go. 

And _ somehow _ the motherfucker had corrupted his best agent and closest friend barely minutes after meeting him. 

The universe was fucking with Nicholas J Fury and he was not amused.

“Gentlemen,” he greeted calmly, dropping into his chair with a casual air of murder about him. “I trust you’ve had your fun for the day.” 

Fury was easy to lip read. Clint opened his mouth to drop a smart-arsed comment but when Coulson’s hand came to rest gently on his shoulder, he snapped it shut without uttering a word. The hand was warm and comforting, and he welcomed its presence.

Not usually one for giving away facial expressions, Fury quirked a surprised eyebrow at the gesture and its acceptance by the young man who previously had been doing an excellent impression of a feral alley cat. This was more than Coulson’s usual newbie wrangling abilities. _ Had _ to be for it to make sense.

Fury removed his sidearm from its holster and set it down on the desk in front of him. He relaxed back in his chair, elbows on the armrests, fingers steepled together. Coulson didn’t react to Fury’s display but he felt Clint tense up beneath his touch. He gave Clint’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze and was pleased when the tension eased a little.

“Care to explain, Agent Coulson.” It may not have been a question but it sure as hell demanded a response.

Coulson positioned himself closer to Fury to be in Clint's line of sight. The Deputy Director didn’t comment. He trusted Coulson - well, more or less - but he was damned curious. 

“You’re aware of my time in the orphanage, sir,” signing as he spoke. He knew Fury was very much aware of the fact but his statement was more for Clint’s benefit. 

It wasn't news to Fury that Hawkeye was deaf, medical had reported the information to him after assessing him, but medical had also advised him he wore hearing aids. If Coulson was signing (also not a surprise) they presumably must be defective. That may explain a thing or two. A brief flare of anger flashed through him. The asshole hadn’t let on, and no-one had realised, or even thought to ask, treating him like an obnoxious smart-mouthed little shit. Then again, maybe Hawkeye _ was _ an obnoxious smart-mouthed little shit. Time would tell.

Fury responded to the non-question anyway. “I am.”

Coulson nodded. “Then you’ll remember me talking about a wiseass kid with an incredible aim who breezed in one day turning the place on its head.”

Fury tapped his steepled fingers against his lips a couple of times to hide the smirk at the wounded yet delighted look on Clint’s face. He moved them again before he spoke so that Hawkeye could see his mouth.

“You may have mentioned somebody like that, yes.”

Coulson’s lips curled up at the corner. “And you may also remember me saying that wiseass kid pretty much saved my life and made the three months he was there bearable for the first time in four years."

“Sounds familiar.”

“Well then, it would appear that The Amazing Hawkeye and the wiseass kid are one and the same. Deputy Director Fury, neet Clinton Francis Barton. He’s going to be a lot of trouble but... I believe worth the effort with the right guidance.”

Fury waited until Hawkeye/Barton raised his head from the self-conscious little head duck, neck rub thing he was doing after Coulson's words (good to know there was some humility in there somewhere).

“Glad you think so, Coulson," he drawled, turning his attention to his monitors while nonchalantly picking up his Glock to secure it in the desk drawer. "The asshole's your problem now."

Part elated, part terrified, Clint whipped his gaze over to Phil. Phil stood ramrod straight, his hands folded in front of him every bit the calm, competent senior agent. The only thing that gave him away was the hard knot of muscle in his jaw tightly clenched to keep his emotions in check. 

"Understood, sir," he said dispassionately. If Clint hadn't seen this act before he'd be certain Phil had no interest in the task. 

Coulson had known Fury long enough to recognise a dismissal when he heard one and gestured for Clint to head to the door. They'd almost reached it when Fury added, "Oh, and Coulson? Pull another stunt like that and you'll be in the brig so quick you'll puke from the g-force."

Coulson smiled politely. "Yessir."


	3. the brig

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies about the delay for an update. The work was originally going to be three chapters but some of your wonderfully kind comments gave me a few ideas for a fourth which should also be posted today.
> 
> Thank you so much for your patience, and your comments and kudos with the earlier chapters. They're all so very much appreciated.
> 
> ~ Lola <3

Clint and Phil spent the next three hours in the brig anyway.

Apparently, Fury was a vindictive sonofabitch when he wanted to be. Having been remiss in not rescinding the Search and Detain order that had been issued for the two of them, it now seemed no-one was able to reach the Deputy Director to request its revocation. And no matter how well they knew Coulson, security wasn't going to simply take his word for it. Frustrating as it was, he had to respect them for that.

Rather than remaining pissed about it, however, the pair spent their time getting to know one another again. Unfortunately for Fury, if he'd hoped to gain more insight into Hawkeye (or Phil for that matter) by throwing them together, he was going to be sorely disappointed. Phil knew where all the cameras were positioned and deliberately angled their bodies in such a way as to allow them to speak to each other without the cameras picking up their signing.

"I thought you weren't a field agent," Clint accused. At Phil's questioning frown, he clarified what he meant. "Fury said 'the asshole's your problem now'. Presumably, I'm the asshole he was meaning."

Phil allowed a barely-there smile to settle on his lips at Clint's perfect but indignant recall of Fury's words. "You're not an asshole. Though to be fair it's practically a term of endearment from the Deputy Director. And, no I'm not a field agent, but… I do mentor new agents occasionally."

Again the irrational stab of jealousy that Phil had shared his time with someone else. He really had to get control of that bullshit before he let something slip.

"Yeah well, _he's_ an asshole," Clint pouted like a petulant teenager. "And I mean it as an insult."

Phil's smile grew wider, his expression a combination of exasperated and fond as he removed his aviators, slipping them into his jacket pocket. "Mature." he quipped, thankful security had at least dimmed the lights for him. "No, really. You've grown."

Clint flashed him a grin. "Yeah, I'm a big boy now. Wanna see how much I’ve grown?" he said wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Phil knew Clint was joking but still… He hoped the burning sensation he felt at the tips of his ears wasn't bright enough for Clint to see.

“So, what happened to you after St Agnes?" Clint asked, taking pity on Phil and changing the subject. It was cute the way the tips of his ears still glowed when he was embarrassed. “How did you manage to wind up here? Become ‘The Man’?”

Phil rolled his eyes at ‘the man’ comment, coaxing a curl of Clint’s lips in response. Clint too was glad they'd turned down the lights in the cell. It allowed him to see Phil's eyes now that he’d removed his shades; he still found them hell of a pretty.

“Things… got better," Phil said with a small shrug of his shoulder. "Whitehall disappeared, to avoid criminal charges presumably. We got a new Administrator, Peggy Carter. Used to work with S.H.I.E.L.D. when it was formed as the Strategic Scientific Reserve during the Second World War. She was assigned as liaison from the British Government... You know what? Not important,” he added with a blush at Clint’s own epic eye roll. He was geeking out again. “Anyway, she arrived the same day I took a header off the roof. Saw it happen and went ballistic. She figured out what was going on and separated the three douches, keeping Garrett and sending the others to different homes. She was good, Clint. Didn’t take anyone’s crap. Managed to get rid of half the board and bullied or cajoled the rest into funding the home, running it properly. And the best thing, she knew The Cap! Can you imagine? Captain America!”

For an instant, Clint saw the thirteen-year-old boy he’d known two decades earlier. The passion in his voice, his cheeks flushed with excitement, his body leaning in towards Clint so eager and intense as he spoke about Peggy Carter and his beloved Cap. He found himself drawn forward too, caught up in Phil’s enthusiasm.

“Still a fucking geek, Fatlip,” he teased, trying to cover his own emotions; horror and guilt for what had happened to Phil after he left - maybe _because_ he left, a little jealousy that he missed out on the changes that had obviously been for the good of the orphans and not the orphanage, and the old adoration he’d once felt slamming back into his gut. Hard.

“Still swear a lot, Pottymouth,” Phil shot back, unaware of Clint's inner turmoil.

“The fuck I do!”

The two of them grinned at each other.

God! Phil Coulson! What were the odds of them being thrown together again? Right now Clint wanted to hug the guy with the eyepatch instead of punching him in the balls. Maybe he could do both?

"Hey! Who treated your wound when you got here?" Phil asked. Clint frowned at the curveball he'd just been thrown pulling him from his thoughts.

"Uh… a lady doc, Emmerson, looked me over an' a male nurse, Franklin, stitched it up."

"Huh. So, you didn't see Dr Streiten?"

"Streiten? From St Agnes?" Well, it seemed like today was a day full of blasts from the past. "Seriously? Man! He must be like, a hundred by now."

Phil snorted. "He wasn't much older than I am now when we knew him back then."

"Like I said, an old fart!"

"Fuck you!"

"Yeah, you wish."

Phil froze like a deer in the headlights. A deep blush spread across his cheekbones and the muscles in his jaw jumped several times before he managed to tear his gaze away. Clint didn't know what to say either. If that meant what he thought it meant, _hoped_ it meant, it was a revelation he hadn't been expecting. Not even today with all its surprises.

"Um… so, Dr Streiten?" he prompted, deciding to ignore that particular bombshell. For now anyway. Maybe they could revisit it at another time, like when they weren't locked in a cell in spy central.

Phil cleared his throat, happy to grab the chance Clint had given him to ignore his slip-up. "Yeah. Turns out, he'd been contacted by S.H.I.E.L.D to watch out for potential recruits."

"Not creepy at all," Clint interrupted, looking a little weirded out.

"Natural reaction," Phil admitted. It had been his too when he'd first been told about the arrangement. "Fury was a senior agent back then and the doctor's liaison. Streiten gave him my name about the time you and I met. He and Peggy…"

"Oooh! Peg-ee!"

Phil cocked an eyebrow. "Really?"

As Phil's tone was amused rather than angry, Clint just smirked. This felt so good. So comfortable. And even after two decades, so achingly familiar.

Clint tried to look contrite but he could only manage mischievous - with maybe a little wistful thrown in. "Sorry, Fatlip. Go on, yeah?"

"The doctor and yes, Peggy looked after me while I was recovering. She learned about achromatopsia, always made sure I had spare glasses and a place to go where the lighting was dim. Although the roof was out of bounds now, of course.” He grinned at Clint who returned a slightly weaker version of the smile when an image of Phil falling from the edge flashed through his mind.

“Over the next couple of years, she pushed me pretty hard but in a good way. Made sure I got good grades. Encouraged my love of history. Told me stories about Captain America and the Howling Commandos. She'd been part of the team, fighting alongside them during the war; after The Cap’s plane had gone down in the Arctic.”

"Sounds like she was pretty awesome," Clint said when Phil paused. He couldn’t miss the sadness in Phil’s eyes but he didn’t mention it. He wasn’t sure if the sorrow was for losing his childhood hero, or if the woman who’d obviously become a mother figure to him was no longer in the picture.

Phil nodded.

“She kinda was. Is, I guess. Been a while since I’ve seen her.” He pushed the melancholy away and carried on. “When I graduated high school, Fury approached me at the ceremony. Gave me his card. Convinced me to join S.H.I.E.L.D Academy and…" Phil shrugged, "now I'm '_The Man._' Apparently."

Clint looked at Phil's straight face. The bland expression and the way he deadpanned his last few words made Clint completely lose it, laughing until tears gathered in his eyes and the muscles of his stomach ached. He pulled his good leg up to his chest again, resting his forehead against his knee, clutching his ribs.

Phil ducked his head and grinned. He didn't think it had been that funny but hell, he'd take it to hear that sound again. Clint’s laughter had always been magical often making Phil's sadness and fears disappear, if only for a time. And right now, the worry and stress had vanished from Clint's face, leaving his features soft with a hint of the kid Phil remembered from his youth.

At thirty though, the kid had grown into a very handsome man Phil realised. He bit his lip and turned his head away glad that Clint couldn't see the blush that warmed his cheeks. Again. He'd better stow _that_ shit before he gave himself away more than he had already.

Eventually, Clint’s guffaws petered out with just the occasional hiccough. He hadn’t laughed like that it a long fucking time. He told Phil as much and Phil smiled jutting his chin in acknowledgement. At Clint's request, he continued his tale.

Although his achromatopsia had ruled him out of becoming a field agent, it hadn't hindered him in other ways. It hadn’t stopped from learning hand-to-hand at the Academy. Well, once he found someone who didn't treat him with kid gloves.

Melinda May, a smart and tough fellow probie, had seemed quite happy to knock seven shades out of him on a regular basis. By her reckoning, there were bound to be times in the field when she'd be fighting in near dark conditions so sparring with him in dim light would only sharpen her skills. He'd gone to bed aching and bruised after their sessions on the mats but he'd also been genuinely happy. Sometimes she even gave him the weekends off to recover.

With his natural aptitude for history and strategy, Phil was assigned to communications and command while May trained as a specialist. It meant most of their classes were different but it didn't stop them from becoming the best of friends. They'd remained so ever since with May claiming she always felt safer when Phil had planned one of her ops.

During his time at the Academy, Fury kept an interested eye on him. Figuratively speaking. He had sight in both of them back then.

The senior agent rarely mentored anyone but Streiton had been right about Phil being "the real deal", not that Phil was aware of the details of that particular conversation. The doctor had also been right about Phil's above average intelligence and him being stubborn as a mule. But Fury had been able to work with those.

He encouraged the young agent to think and work outside the box, pushing him even harder than Peggy Carter had done. He taught Phil to follow his instincts and hone them until he could tell bullshit from the truth just by being in a room with someone. And Phil had taken to his guidance like a duck to water eventually becoming Fury's go-to guy for anything out of the ordinary. He also made the very short list of people whom the Deputy Director trusted.

While he reminisced, a thought occurred to him, popping into his head out of the blue. "Hey! That first day on the roof of St Agnes. The door to the fire exit was closed. How were you going to get back down?"

Clint smirked. "Same way as I got up, Fatlip. Climb."

Phil blinked then nodded, not questioning Clint's reply. "Of course," was all he said in response. Now he knew Clint was Hawkeye it made sense.

“So, what about you, Clint? How did The Amazing Hawkeye come about?” When he didn’t answer immediately, Phil quickly added, “Don’t have to tell me. It’s okay.”

Clint uncurled from his position and shook his head, rubbing his nose with the heel of his hand. “Nah, I'm good. You’re going to find out one way or another. I guess I'd rather you got it from me."

He opened up about Barney leaving him at St Agnes while he set things up with a travelling circus he knew of so they would take the two of them in. It's why Barney had been so angry at him when he'd wanted to bring Phil along. He hadn't planned for that. It was just him and his little brother. He didn't need another kid to take care of. Not that Clint had known any of that at the time.

Phil was already aware of the next part; the what if not the why of Clint's abrupt departure for the circus late one night, but he listened to the rest with conflicting emotions.

For a while, Carson's had been okay, good even. When he arrived with Barney, Clint was still a scrawny little kid who couldn’t do much except help look after the animals (which he loved) and chop endless vegetables for the communal meals (which he hated, _really_ hated). That was until his perfect aim came to the notice of one of the performers a few years later while he entertained the roustabouts by throwing knives across the food tent. Hardly safe but no-one really minded, they knew he never missed.

Intrigued by his skills, a performer whose posters proudly declared him to be Trickshot - He Never Misses, worked with him to find out how good he actually was. Pleased by what he saw, the carnival’s archer took him on as an apprentice.

Barney had been happy for him. He didn’t have any skills to catch the eye of one of the performers. He was, however, a few years older and had long since started to fill out so earned his keep as a roustabout helping to erect and dismantle the tents, handling the vehicles and equipment, taking care of the grounds. It wasn’t as glamorous as an archer with perfect aim but it was good work and he was good at it. Sometimes he helped Clint get ready for his shows or set up his practice bosses for him. He gently teased him about his bright purple costume decorated with sequins and the way the crowds were wowed by him, cheering and applauding every night, talking about "the amazing archer guy" with awe as they left.

"My god! That _was_ you," Phil interrupted with an excited gasp. "The circus came up in my research when I was looking for you, for Hawkeye but you wore a mask in the pictures I found. I wondered but... I was never sure."

So Phil had known. Well, had suspected at least. Clint smiled shyly and nodded rubbing the back of his neck before he continued.

Slowly, Barney and he drifted apart. By now Barney was around eighteen or nineteen and had long since fallen into drinking with the other roustabouts and a few of the women at night, hustling townies at cards and other 'games'. Clint, on the other hand, practised with his bow until his body ached and he fell into an exhausted asleep in his bunk.

It was around then Barney also came to the notice of Trickshot and his circus buddy with the daring name of The Swordsman. Apparently he had some skills that were worthy of tutelage after all. Barney, Trickshot and The Swordsman would disappear when they were leaving town, sometimes for days, catching up with the rest of the circus on the road. He’d have plenty of money and sometimes plenty of bruises but he was always pretty damned pleased with himself.

He became arrogant and derisive after these outings. His teasing turned mean, mocking Clint instead of encouraging him. The playful cuffs to the back of his head became painful. And with the first black eye Barney had given him, came the sickening realisation his brother was turning into his father. He should have known it was on the cards after being punched at the orphanage trying to go back for Phil (that thought, however, he kept to himself).

The muscles in Phil's jaw bunched together into a tight knot as Clint's life was gradually revealed. He was aware of Clint's history of abuse at his father's hands and his eventual demise along with Clint's mother in a car accident. Harold and Edith Barton's deaths, like their lives, had been violent and bloody.

Much like Clint’s life was becoming.

Barney began dragging him into his criminal activities insisting he accompanied them on a few outings to keep watch. He eventually fell into violence trying to protect his brother from someone who'd returned unexpectedly, wounding them with a well-aimed knife to the hand when the mark raised his gun. All three had been impressed and with the threat that Barney could die without his protection to convince him, they’d forced him into tagging along from then on. Barney was his brother; you didn't abandon family.

Until you did, of course.

It all ended for Clint a few years later with him being left for dead in a filthy, rain-soaked alleyway one night after threatening to tell Carson when he caught the trio stealing from the carnival. For Clint taking money from those he considered family was a step too far. Had he not been found by a curious and fortunately caring passerby he would have met an end as tragic as his parents.

Once he'd healed enough to escape the hospital and possessing no other skills to speak of, Clint managed to earn a living trading on his talent with a bow. Over time and with a trail of corpses behind him he became Hawkeye, the assassin who never missed, a disturbing echo of Trickshot.

This, of course, brought him to the attention of S.H.I.E.L.D. and eventually Fury himself.

Hawkeye's saving grace, and something which intrigued Phil far more than the archer’s aim was his choice of target. Drug runners, child molesters, sex traffickers. Only this kept Phil interested as he devised plan after plan to catch the infamous Hawkeye, getting a little closer each time.

By the time Clint finished telling his tale, Phil’s jaw ached from being clenched too hard. They fell silent for a while, neither sure what to say. Clint pulled his good leg up to his chest again which Phil realised was his default position when he was thinking, or perhaps overthinking.

He caught Clint’s attention and signed, “Your leg how is it?”

Clint shrugged and gave him a small smile. “Okay. Had worse.”

After all that he’d learned, Phil knew that was probably true. He didn’t push the subject instinctively understanding Clint would shut down if he pressed him.

“How’s... your mom?” Clint asked hesitantly.

Phil blinked and turned his head away the question catching him by surprise.

Shit! Clint could have kicked himself for asking. It was obvious from Phil’s reaction something had happened to her. When they were kids, Phil had told Clint about his mom and dad the same day he told Phil about the car accident that claimed the lives of his parents. He knew Phil had loved her very much.

“She... died a few years ago. Same date as my dad actually. I guess she finally missed him too much. Passed in her sleep one night to join him.”

Clint’s stomach lurched. “Ah shit, man! I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

Phil gave him a sad smile in return. “It’s nice that you did. Thanks for that.”

“So, I was wondering…” Clint started after another few awkward moments had passed. Phil's brow creased in a questioning frown and Clint thought the little triangle of lines it created above the bridge of Phil's nose was kind of cute. “... did you pick that tie especially for me?”

The frown deepened and Clint grinned as Phil’s hand automatically went to his tie smoothing down the length of silk with his fingertips.

“You ever had Ube ice cream?” It’s a long shot. Purple yam ice cream isn’t exactly up there with chocolate or vanilla. He’d only had it a couple of times when he’d been on a job in the Philippines a few years earlier.

The frown melted away and Phil’s eyes brightened. “Actually, yeah. I have.”

Fucking A!

“Well, your tie and my arrow fletching and Ube ice cream? Same purple.”

“Huh! Didn’t know that,” Phil said thoughtfully, remembering the mildly sweet, nutty flavour comparing it in his mind to the smooth, soft feel of the silk under his fingertips. It was a good match however unintentional. No-one except Clint had ever tried to describe colours to him and that had been a very long time ago.

“I had it a few years back,” Phil continued, managing to keep his tone light after swallowing the lump that had stuck in his throat. “Became a favourite when I was in Baguio. Although I managed to stop eating it before I became too obsessed and puked.”

During their friendship as kids, Clint remembered Phil eating until he barfed thanks to his obsessive tendencies - and Clint’s encouragement on the odd occasion. As did Phil apparently.

Clint snorted at that. “Not really fitting for a guy in your position.”

“No so much,” Phil agreed, his expression a little bashful.

It suddenly dawned on Clint. “Baguio? When were you in the Philippines?”

“Maybe two years ago?” Phil's eyebrow raised at the tightness of Clint’s shoulders, and the tension in his fingers and hands making his signing jerky. He remembered it used to signal Clint was pissed about something. Apparently that hadn’t changed. And then connection clicked into place. He'd been there the same time as Clint.

“Fuck! You were looking for me then?” Clint asked, confirming Phil’s suspicions.

Phil nodded and his eyes twinkled with mischief. “And yet I only managed to find [Nora’s Homemade Frozen Delights](Nora%E2%80%99s%20Homemade%20Frozen%20Delights) and the best damn Ube ice cream in the city.”

Clint’s shoulders relaxed and his signing returned to its usual smooth control. Yeah, he could never stay pissed at Phil for long.

“Fury must have been delighted,” he said with an obnoxious smirk.

Phil winced at the memory of the apoplectic rant that had lasted nearly ninety minutes. He wasn’t part of the Strike Team, obviously, but he’d designed the op to catch Hawkeye and they’d missed him by less than twenty-four hours. It was around then Fury became personally invested in the capture of the World’s Greatest Marksman.

“Thrilled,” he deadpanned making Clint release a short bark of laughter wrinkling up his nose in the process. Phil flashed him a wry smile in return, finding the wrinkled nose thing to be an endearing look on Clint.

“So, no-one’s tried to describe colours to you since St Agnes?” Clint appeared a little hurt on Phil’s behalf. And maybe a little pleased.

Phil ducked his head for a moment and when he raised it, his cheeks were flushed. The colour deepened as he spoke.

"You were the only one who tried,” he said. “And… I guess I didn't want anyone else to. It was kind of our thing.”

Clint's heart soared. He thought he'd been the only one who wanted that connection. Something that was special only to them.

"Do you still watch the sun setting?" he asked. He often thought of Phil when he saw it. It made him feel closer to him, thinking he might be seeing it too depending on where he was in the world. Almost like they were watching it together.

The corner of Phil’s mouth curled up in a shy smile. "From the roof when I get the chance."

"Raspberry Ripple?"

Phil’s smile widened. "My favourite kind."


	4. the field

“Do you think I’ve given ‘em long enough?” Fury murmured. His head turned and tilted every so often to compensate for only having one good eye as he studied Coulson and Hawkeye on his monitors.

“Three hours? I’d say that’s long enough for most things, yes." Hill waited for a few beats before adding, “It’s not like you’ve learned anything. Well, other than Coulson knows where all the cameras are in the brig.”

She received an unimpressed glare from him. Hiding her amusement at his annoyance, she arched an equally unimpressed eyebrow and gazed coolly back at him.

“So, have you told him yet?” she asked after a moment of sulky silence from the Deputy Director. “The lucky winner of the Hawkeye lottery,” she clarified at Fury’s questioning look.

"Now, _what_ makes you _think_ it’s gonna be him, Agent Hill?" The questioning look is accompanied by a smirk that should have ™ after it.

Hill’s stomach dropped like an elevator hurtling towards the basement. It wouldn’t do to let Fury think he’d unnerved her, so she put on her best poker face refusing to give her fear of being announced the winner of that, particularly fucked-up lottery a chance to take hold.

“I’d figured Agent Sitwell, sir.”

“_Reeea-lly_?” Fury’s voice dripped with sarcasm as he leaned back in his chair, resting his clasped hands on his stomach and cocking his head to the side as though considering how she may have come to that conclusion. Hill only just managed to control the urge to roll her eyes. God, Deputy Director or not, he could be an asshole sometimes.

She'd calculated the odds and determined that out of her, Blake, and Sitwell - by far the best candidates for Hawkeye's handler - Sitwell was the one least likely to kill the archer in his first week. Well, would take the longest to give in to the impulse. On top of that, Hawkeye's handler would also have to deal with Coulson who looked as though he was going to be ridiculously overprotective towards S.H.I.E.L.D.’s new asset. That would make things complicated. And beyond irritating.

Coulson and Hawkeye obviously knew each other and knew each other well going by their body language. And _that_ was intriguing as Fury was staying tight-lipped about what happened earlier. She liked and admired Coulson, there was much to like and admire, but shoe-horning her way into his and Hawkeye’s cosy two-person dynamic would take patience she didn't have. Nor did Blake. The more she thought about it, the more she believed Sitwell could actually be a good fit.

Besides even if he was a terrible fit, she wasn’t above throwing him under the bus if it got her off Fury’s radar. Mixed metaphors aside.

"You _could_ assign me, of course, sir. But how will Agent Sitwell learn to anticipate an unexpected strike to his balls if he doesn't meet his weaknesses head-on? So to speak."

The Deputy Director didn’t comment on that, although his eye twinkled with amusement. "And Blake?"

"Will likely end up needing stents after his first heart attack or maybe straight to a triple heart bypass." She tilted her head considering several theoretical scenarios involving the trio in her mind. "Probably both."

An exaggeration obviously but Blake's fuse was short and she doubted his blood pressure would put up with Hawkeye's bullshit for long.

Fury gave her a measured look making her stomach roll again. Oh hell no!

"Good instincts, Agent. Well thought through. So, let me make a recommendation; stock up on your favourite brand of antacids. You've just convinced me you've got what it takes to handle a wayward new asset and his fussing mother hen."

She opened her mouth to protest but closed it again at the sight of Fury’s eyebrow, arched so high in challenge it almost disappeared over the top of his bald head. Objecting would do her no good; her tactic had failed. In fact, it had backfired in spectacular fashion. She'd be better off trying to stop a herd of rampaging elephants with a peashooter.

“Now, how about you release the pair of them back into the wild and get together with Coulson tomorrow for pointers on how to deal with the World’s Greatest Pain-In-My-Ass. And I don’t want to see you tapping out after a week. And no shooting anyone. Oh, and just so we're clear, I include both Coulson and Barton in that.”

“Double standards,” Hill murmured as pushed herself off the edge of Fury’s desk and headed towards the door. He’s the one who shot Hawkeye in the leg after all.

“Deputy Director's privilege,” the Deputy Director countered, sounding far too amused for Hill’s liking.

“Still double standards.”

“Mm-hmm.”

*

“_Hill_? You’ve assigned _Hill_?”

Fury stared at the whirlwind that had raged into his office uprooting his calm and wreaking havoc with his paperwork. “Is there a _problem_, Agent Coulson?”

Phil dropped himself into Fury’s visitor’s chair with a long sigh.

“No, sir,” he admitted, the bluster blowing itself out as he recognised how irrational he was being. “She’ll be good for him. Won’t put up with his crap. Eventually.”

Fury sat back in his chair casting a long, hard look at his agent. Coulson didn’t usually challenge his decisions over newbies’ handler assignments, even for the ones he’d taken under his wing. He was curious as to why Hawkeye warranted this special treatment. He was aware, obviously, that Coulson had known the merc when he was a kid but was that enough to justify him barging into his office apparently offended by his decision? He didn’t believe it was. So, of course, he asked in his own, subtle way.

“Then _why_ such a _drama_ _queen_?”

Phil huffed out a quiet laugh and relaxed in the chair a little, letting some of the tension seep from his body. “Sorry, sir. You’re right.”

“I know it,” Fury told him. He noticed Coulson hadn’t exactly answered the question.

After a moment, Coulson shrugged and slid his hand down his tie. “Saw their debrief. It... didn’t exactly go well." There was a pause before Coulson added, "Must admit, I thought you’d have picked Sitwell, ball injury aside.”

The Deputy Director allowed himself a self-satisfied smirk. “So did Hill.”

Phil raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Huh."

Fury studied his friend as he stared off into the distance seemingly lost in contemplation. Finally, believing he understood what was really at the bottom of Phil's unease, he gave voice to his thoughts.

"You _know_ I can't make you his handler, Phil. A handler needs to be active in the field."

Phil tensed in the chair again. Trust Fury to hit the nail on the head with all the tact of a blunt instrument.

"I'm well aware of that, Deputy Director, " he said coldly. That was something he needed no reminder of.

When he was young, his achromatopsia had forced his life to go in a direction different to that he would have chosen had he been able. It rarely bothered him nowadays, he'd led a pretty incredible life to date, but with Clint he couldn’t help wish things were different. He’d been unable to protect Clint when he was a kid, and he couldn’t protect him now as an adult. At least, not the way Hill or Sitwell or Blake could. And that _did_ bother him.

His musing were once again interrupted by Fury but this time instead of causing anger and frustration, he made sense.

"You can’t be his handler, Phil, but you _can_ teach him. Be his mentor. Help him learn what S.H.I.E.L.D. stands for. He's going to need you and all the knowledge and experience in that head of yours to become a good agent. A man can accomplish anything..."

Phil smiled at him. "I’ve heard that speech."

"Well, _give him_ it. We all have a role to play, Coulson. _Yours_ is to _guide_. To shape the new agents who come through that door. His is to be the _best damn asset_ he can. Help him with that.”

After a moment Phil nodded.

"Wouldn't do any harm for Hill to be reminded of the speech either," Fury pouted. "It's a _nice_ speech."

*

If Phil was surprised Hill had been assigned as Clint’s handler, Clint was shitting bricks.

Phil had been right. Their debrief did not go well.

> _“Well, darlin’, I can see why they sent someone as pretty as you in to see me,” Clint drawled when Hill entered the room and sat at the opposite side of the table. “You’re much easier on the eye than the bad-tempered asshole in the suit. I’m sure we’ll get along real well.”_
> 
> _Hill hadn’t even rolled her eyes at his dumb-carnie, schtick apparently having seen through it immediately._
> 
> _Instead, she opened the file in front of her and relayed some of its content to him, head bowed as she read. It was unfortunate Hawkeye had no idea what she was saying as it would likely have given him some insight into how highly S.H.I.E.L.D. regarded his skill set._
> 
> _When he realised she hadn’t bought what he was selling, Hawkeye changed his strategy opting to ignore her instead. Appearing thoroughly bored with her visit already, he closed his eyes and slouched in his seat with his arms crossed over his chest, legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed. Every so often he'd crack open an eyelid giving an exaggerated yawn when he saw she was still there._
> 
> _This tactic proved to be more effective. He'd been doing it for no more than half an hour perhaps when two guards seized him by his arms having entered when a pissed off Hill departed. She had a low tolerance for assholes who wasted her time and it seemed her patience with Hawkeye had just run out._
> 
> _Grabbing him, however, turned out to be a Very Bad Move._
> 
> _Clint’s instincts kicked in and both of them slumped to the floor unconscious before he realised what he was doing. When the door opened again he backed away from them with his hands up in a placating gesture. He didn’t resist when he was slammed against the wall by armed guards and cuffed with his hands behind his back before being dragged unceremoniously back to his cell._
> 
> _Part of him still thought they deserved it though._

Perhaps if his leg hadn’t been aching he might have been less of a dick towards her, but at that point, he’d been feeling like shit, nursing a deep-seated hatred for anyone associated with S.H.I.E.L.D and honestly, Hill, like Fury and Blake, could quite frankly, go fuck herself.

Besides, she’d made it pretty clear she hadn’t wanted to be there, that she had no real interest in him. So he’d played on it. Pushing her until she closed the file in front of her with barely restrained impatience and stalked out of the room. He smiled for a second as he imagined the look on her face, the muscles of her jaw tightly clenched and her lips pushed together in a line so thin they almost disappeared.

And now she was his handler.

Clint winced. Maybe they could start over...

* * *

Hill managed almost six months before she “tapped out”. Well, that wasn’t quite true. It was more that she tagged Sitwell in. She needed a break from him. Hell, she needed a break from the pair of them.

The first three months were relatively easy with Barton spending much of his time at the range wowing everyone with his prowess. Bow, handgun or sniper rifle; it didn’t matter. His reputation as The World’s Greatest Marksman was well-founded and had more than one agent having interesting dreams in which he heavily featured. And if not there, he’d be at the Academy attending the “cool spy shit classes” Coulson had signed him up for. In between, he’d spend time with Coulson learning S.H.I.E.L.D. protocols.

The fourth and fifth tested her resolve a little more when she started taking him out on milk runs. Coulson may have taught him protocols and there was evidence Barton understood them, but he didn’t have the faintest idea how to follow the damn things. He argued, he joked, he pouted over the comms.

And what the hell was Dog Cops anyway?

Yet he never missed. Not once. He completed each assignment and disappeared from the scene, leaving no trace, meeting her at the exfil or safe house. He was good. As brilliant as Fury and Coulson claimed. It was the inane chatter that was destroying her will to live. Her trigger finger itched on more than one occasion as her hand fell to her holstered firearm finding both comfort in its solidity as her palm rested on the grip and frustration with Fury’s instruction that she couldn’t use it on him.

Then he crossed the line.

*

Hill didn’t care how good Barton was, he ignored a sanctioned plan and her direct order during a live op. Changing his location without consulting her was a problem. Going offline when she called him on it, more so. She was livid despite the fact his revised location had been better with a cleaner, clearer shot for someone of his calibre, and circus background. For anyone else it would have been impossible not to mention suicide.

During the debriefing when she’d attempted to tear him a new one, his response had been one of nonchalant indifference and infuriating logic. "Coulson taught me to think outside the box, ma'am. If I’d asked, you’d have thought about it too long, maybe said no and I’d’ve lost my chance."

And he would have been right.

She wasn't sure who she hated more at that moment; Coulson for teaching Barton or Fury for coaching Coulson in the first place. Jaw clenched, lips pulled together in a tight line, she’d left the room before she throttled him.

*

Approaching the end of the sixth month she was beginning to think facing Fury’s ire would be worth it. Hell, he might even thank her after he calmed down. The sixth was all of months four and five with the added bonus of Coulson planning the ops.

It’s not that she didn’t trust him. On the contrary, she trusted Coulson with her life. Literally. He was an excellent strategist whose operations had an incredible success rate. Hell, his back up plans had saved her ass on more than one occasion. But Coulson’s confidence in Barton and vice versa had her wishing she’d stayed in the Marines where things were less intense.

Coulson’s involvement had Barton’s nests higher and farther from the target than they had a right to be while still enabling him to hit his mark effortlessly with bow or sniper rifle. Okay, callsign Hawkeye, but still. Coulson’s escape routes saw Barton parkouring over rooftops and across buildings like a rat up (or down) a drain pipe in ways that left her speechless. And reaching for the antacid. A new brand, industrial strength.

Coulson was pushing him hard, helping him find his limits and Hawkeye was having the time of his life. But she was pissed at him, pissed at them both, for using her ops to recreate their childhood because, underneath that impassive exterior, Hill knew Coulson was like an over-excited five-year-old.

After their post-mission debriefings, the pair would get together to talk about distances and heights, throwing food into their animated discussions which left her mystified. This situation had been lime jello with a clear shot, that one had been lemon tart causing him to pause, he stopped the kill shot as the conditions had been rhubarb crumble. She knew for a face Coulson hated rhubarb crumble - it always tasted too bitter.

Maybe one day she’d ask but right now, she didn’t have the energy. So yeah, she tagged in Sitwell and like the eager beaver he was, having long since forgiven him for the elbow to his balls, he jumped at the chance to work with Hawkeye in the field. She just hoped he’d be warier this time. She was pretty sure his balls could only put up with so much abuse.

And there was no amount of brain bleach that would get that image out of her head. Ever! Hill shuddered.

* * *

It was a wild ride… until it wasn’t.

Phil was at the back of the command centre, his attention focussed on the vast bank of wall monitors and giant screens on which the op was being relayed. He sat perched on the edge of a desk - shoulders hunched, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted to the side slightly - overseeing the mission but not actively taking part.

At least that _had_ been the case. A completely unexpected explosion at the op site thirty seconds earlier changed that, when it took out the live feed leaving the room in the dark, figuratively rather than literally. Or maybe both.

He'd uncurled from his attentive posture straightening his spine making himself seem far taller than his actual 5’9” suggested. Now he was very much the Agent In Charge, striding confidently to the front of the room listening to comms traffic on his headset while casting his gaze over reports as they were thrust at him from all directions.

This had been a command training exercise for Agent Woo involving Hawkeye on a simple undercover observation and intelligence gathering assignment. Although good, Woo immediately deferred to Coulson. Coulson was not a certified field agent, but he had years of experience at bringing impossible situations and shit storms under control here at HQ.

And this was Barton. Not a shit storm on which Woo wanted to cut his teeth to gain his own experience.

The tension in the room was palpable.

Hawkeye’s simple mission was rapidly turning into a clusterfuck. How and why would be analysed later but suffice to say the objectives were now a bust and Clint was compromised.

Fuck!

“Get me that signal back,” Coulson demanded of one of the techs. Already trying to do just that, she doubled her efforts anyway.

“Hawkeye? Sitrep.”

The muscles in Phil’s jaw clenched when he heard static in response. There was nothing for a few more seconds then relief washed over him when he heard a voice through hissing and crackling on the channel, and the screaming fire alarm in the background.

“Sir?”

Thank god! Phil's eyes fell closed for a moment. Clint was alive.

A bout of coughing followed Clint’s response. Reflex coughing, probably due to smoke inhalation and hopefully not a damaged lung filled with fluid.  The good news was his comms seemed to be intact and working again, and his ears hadn’t suffered any lasting damage from the explosion. His tracker and hidden camera though, not so much. 

“Hawkeye, talk to me.”

“I… I…”

Clint was disoriented. Phil had to get that under control. “Focus, Hawkeye. What do you see?”

An image from the hidden camera in Clint’s glasses burst into life on-screen momentarily, revealing rubble and flames and thick, choking smoke. On another, the dot with name tag representing his current location appeared on the schematic of the building. They flickered a couple of times then disappeared.

Phil cursed in his head. Someone cursed in the room.

“Hawkeye? What do you see? Talk to me.” Phil’s voice was calm. Confident. And had the desired effect on Clint.

“Not a whole hell of a lot, sir.” Clint's voice was raspy and hoarse in between fits of coughing. “A lot of smoke and... I think I might have a little blood in my eye.”

Phil's stomach lurched. A “little” meant a huge fucking amount from Clint. However, even minor head injuries were notorious for excessive bleeding and he forced himself to remain composed.

“Making excuses, Agent?”

“Nah, boss. Just letting you know in advance. So you don’t kick my ass later.”

“Huh. That’s a first. Give me a colour, Hawk.”

There was a pause, followed by some coughing then, “Lime jello.”

Phil nodded as others in the room exchanged glances. Some of the data analysts and control room agents had heard this banter between Coulson and Hawkeye before. For others it was new. And strange. And definitely not in the S.H.I.E.L.D. handbook.

The monitors flickered again then stabilised. Thankfully.

Phil kept his words light. “Lime jello’s good, specialist. Not sure I understand why you’re complaining.”

“Sympathy vote?”

“It’s like you don’t know me at all. Sympathy is not my middle name.”

“Nope. It’s…”

“Classified.” A tiny flicker of a smile curled up the corner of Phil’s mouth for a second. If Clint was cracking jokes, Phil could get him to safety. Woo was already coordinating the exfil with his team.

“You on your feet, specialist, or still taking a nap?” He knew Clint was upright, mostly, as the slightly unsteady feed was currently coming direct from his glasses-cam but Phil wanted to make sure he was alert to his surroundings.

“You’re never any fun, boss.”

“That’s hurtful. I’m a regular Boo-Boo Bear,” Phil deadpanned.

“Cool! Does that make me Yogi? Smarter than the av-er-age bear!”

“If you say so, Hawkeye but... pretty sure Yogi was the one getting into trouble with the Park Ranger. Agent Hill says hi, by the way." That earned Coulson a few sniggers around the room, the connection clear. "Now, let’s get you home, shall we?”

Ignoring the bursts of activity going on around him, Phil carefully guided Clint through the building, steering him away from damaged areas where the structure appeared to have weakened or blocked completely, and avoiding hotspots where building security and showed up as a mass of heat signatures on the schematics.

The comms tech worked furiously to patch into any available CCTV feeds and keep the links open to assist with Coulson’s exit strategy as Woo coordinated a medical and strike team with Fury’s blessing.

When Clint had almost reached the nearest available exit, another explosion hit the building taking out the comms signal for a second time. This time there was no getting it back. There was nothing but loud and soul-crushing static. Any visuals were limited to sporadic and shaky images of Clint’s escape from the building before even that went dark.

Clint was now cut off from Phil and the support of the Command Centre.

Tension in the room had ramped up again while everyone waited for word. Coulson remained composed on the outside, his unflappability reassuring everyone else. One the inside, his guts were churning and he was fighting hard to keep his legs from collapsing beneath him.

Thankfully, less than an hour later the retrieval teams had been in contact to advise Clint had been successfully recovered and was safely en route back to the Triskelion with a mild concussion, a three-inch cut to his scalp (now glued together and a field dressing in place) and a few minor scrapes and bruises.

”Good job, everyone. Bring them home.” Coulson told the operations room which erupted into loud cheers and clapping.

Phil turned on his heel and left for his office, hands hanging by his sides clenched into tight fists to keep them from trembling. Once he’d thrown up in the restroom and made himself presentable again, he was going to end this charade once and for all.

He’d nearly lost Clint today and he wasn’t going to let him back in the field without telling him how he felt. Not another day would go by without him telling Clint how much he loved him. How much was _in_ love with him.

And he would always have his back; always bring him home.

*

Hill had joined room immediately she’d be advised of the first explosion keeping back as Coulson and the team worked. She was still Barton’s primary handler and therefore aware of his solo mission running in tandem with Woo’s training exercise. But more than that, as much as he cost her a small fortune in antacids, she wanted to make sure he came home safely.

She needn’t have worried on that account. Coulson, as always, had done a great job as always in the ops room. Of keeping a lost agent anchored and giving them the confidence to escape from a burning building, even when contact itself had been lost for a while.

She nodded to him as he passed and he acknowledged it with a jut of his chin.

Watching him leave, realisation dawned suddenly on her. She _wasn’t_ Barton’s primary handler. Coulson was. Coulson knew the boy Barton had been, and he understood the man he was now. That was why he allowed him to get away with so much backchat and bullshit. He knew it kept him calm. Kept him focussed. Coulson needed Barton to think outside the box because the protocols wouldn’t always apply. He needed him to think for himself to survive when there was no-one to guide him home. When _he_ wasn’t there to guide him home.

Coulson had been the voice of reason in Barton’s ear today and was the unflappable, stable personality in Barton’s life _every_ day. And Barton? Barton was Coulson’s daring side, wild and unpredictable and chaotic.

She understood now and with Coulson, she would have Barton’s back making sure he came home. 

**Author's Note:**

> *SPOILERS*  
After doing research into achromatopsia I didn't think Phil could become an active field agent especially as he can only see in black and white and his eyes are sensitive to light. So I created an AU where Phil and Clint meet as children at an orphanage. Then I couldn't decide whether to leave it as a kidfic or have them meet again as adults at SHIELD so, what the hell I did both.


End file.
